


Doesn't Matter If You Don't Wanna Play My Game

by dynamicsymmetry



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bethyl Smut Week, Dirty Talk, F/M, Hair-pulling, Rough Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-12 09:46:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5661808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dynamicsymmetry/pseuds/dynamicsymmetry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life is good in the funeral home, friendship has become something much more, and Beth has gone a long way toward shaking Daryl of his initial shyness. But when he comes home from hunting to her own kind of ambush, she gets a lot more than she was expecting. Though maybe also exactly what she wanted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doesn't Matter If You Don't Wanna Play My Game

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote for Bethyl Smut Week. Was originally writing to a prompt, but it ended up demanding to be a separate thing. So.

He used to be so shy.

Cracks her the fuck up sometimes. Or it does internally; she doesn’t actually laugh about it where he can see, because if she did he would ask what the fuck was so funny and she would either have to lie fast - unattractive - or she’d have to tell him, and she’s not sure she would explain it correctly. Might not come off so great. The last thing she wants now is for him to worry that she’s laughing at him.

He probably wouldn’t. Now. Even so.

He was shy. Still is sometimes. With her, with this; she remembers that first time in front of the fire with the eerie, surreal clarity of the most vivid dream: His tentative fingers drifting down her sides and then under her shirt, over her bra, cupping and kneading her tits hesitantly and then far less so, how he jumped when she reached down between them and cupped him, traced him, moaned at how hard he was. He almost seemed alarmed by it initially. Almost seemed like he wasn’t sure what the fuck was even happening to him.

He clenched his teeth and pushed himself into her palm and looked like he was in pain. Looked like he was in pain sweeping his rough hands across her back and shoulders and thighs, unsteady in his eagerness once he found it, and he looked like he was in fucking _agony_ when he settled between her legs and slid into her, fucking her like he was terrified and then like he was falling off a fucking cliff, sobbing against her throat as he stiffened and shuddered and came.

Inside her. He forgot. She forgot. Stayed in her and clutched her, gasping, until he realized and pulled out with a hiss, and she felt the stickiness between her legs and looked up at him, red and gold in the firelight with every angle and curve cut sharp with shadows, and she wasn’t afraid.

After a moment, he wasn’t either. And anyway, nothing happened.

But he was shy, for a while. Yeah, not so much now.

Though she still hasn’t gotten him to fuck her in the coffin.

When he was shy this would have freaked him out, her leaping on him literally seconds after he walks in the door with a rabbit hanging from his belt and a bag of what turns out to be wild mushrooms - yes, he _does_ know which ones not to eat now - in his hand, just giving him time to get the bow off his shoulder before she’s slamming him back against the wall and fumbling at his buckle and his fly, dragging her lips from his mouth down his throat, open-mouthed and laughing and already so fucking _wet._

She doesn’t know why sometimes she wants him with such abrupt ferocity. She only knows that she does. He called her a _horny fuckin’ teenager_ one time like it was some kind of insult, rolling his eyes in an exasperated heavenward plea for patience, and then he obliged by eating her out until she was pulling his hair and hissing curses on his name.

She also used to have a fairly clean mouth.

When she said she wished she could change, this isn’t exactly what she had in mind, but beggars and choosers and everything and. Yeah.

About begging.

He suffers it for a few seconds, arches under her hands and as she gropes between his legs she releases a gleeful little giggle, because he can’t hide what his body is doing for her. But he doesn’t touch her, doesn’t reach for her, and her impatient whine echoes off the walls as she tugs his fly down and wriggles her fingers inside. She just grazes him, fingertips against burning skin that shocked her - the first time she touched it - by how _smooth_ it is, so unlike the rest of him, when he grips her wrist and jerks her hand free and then shoves her back with one hand on her shoulder and uses the other to lever himself away from the wall.

She stumbles backward with a startled exhale and a picture rattles in its frame as she catches herself on the side table, staring at him with injury that manages to be mostly feigned. But she _wants_ him and she’s been waiting since he left this morning, and maybe he’s spoiled her. Always giving her what she demands in the end.

Like he doesn’t fucking want to.

She squeezes her thighs together and he stands there, gaze raking up and down her, and she sees something in it that keeps her locked in place and lets him look. She doesn’t actually think he’s going to tease her now, and he drops the bag by his bow, drops the rabbit as he slides off his belt and practically stalks toward her, and a little flutter of something deliciously like fear trembles low in her belly.

Hasn’t made her feel like this too much. Enough for her to know she likes it.

She breathes his name and then he’s backing her against the table, pinning her to it with his body and digging its worn edge into the dip of her spine above her tailbone. And this isn’t completely new either, but she wasn’t expecting it, and she looks up at him with wide eyes and leans back almost as if she’s trying to pull away.

She’s already gripping the table with both hands and now he seizes her wrists with thick, calloused fingers and holds them there, holds them apart from her sides, and his cock is a stiff length pressing into her belly when he rolls his hips. She bites her lip and whimpers again, and it’s not affectation. Behind a cool blue gaze is a wicked heat that…

He used to be _shy._

“You want somethin’?” Low rumble. Casual. Like he just happens to be asking. Like he honestly doesn’t know, but she sure seems to want _something_ and now he’s curious.

He’s an _asshole_ is what he is, and she grimaces and presses back, angling herself forward and up and trying to grin against him. “You _know. _”__

“Ain’t no mind-reader, girl.”

He’s leaning in and she can smell him: Sweat, soil, crushed plants, blood, the faint whiff of decay that clings to everything now and can never be washed off. Deeper. A musk she knows. They’re face to face but she can smell his cock. She breathes deep and releases it shakily, and her clit is pounding against the seam of her jeans. “Daryl…”

“Tell me.” Murmurs practically in her ear; all at once his mouth is so close to it, breath hot on her jaw, and she tips her head back and moans. She’s not even going to try to control herself. Not like this. And the more she makes it clear, the more difficult it’ll be for him to hold off.

“I-I want…”

And this is the strange thing about _her,_ still: It’s hard for her to say it. In the heat of the moment, when he’s pounding into her, she forgets herself and she can - _God, Daryl, fuck me, fuck me, yes_ \- but at any other time they don’t come so easy. There’s a block in her mind that she can’t explain. She squirms - now, like always, and a violent shiver ripples down her spine when his tongue traces up the shell of her ear and back down as he bites gently at her lobe. Sucks.

This was a huge mistake except it’s probably one of the best decisions she’s ever made.

“Mm?”

“I want you,” she whispers, already knowing it’s not enough, because he laughs and tugs her right wrist off the table and guides it between his legs, settling her palm over his straining cock.

“Kinda vague. Just guessin’ - you want this?”

She nods. Yet another whimper as she squeezes him, and a pulse of warm satisfaction when his breath catches and he rocks against her hand. His control is shaky too. He’s just good at faking it, this man who used to be so shy with her.

And then he jerks her hand away. “You want it, you say it.”

_Fuck._ She could kick him. She could knee him in that _thing_ her mouth is watering for, and that wouldn’t be a good beginning at all, so instead she shuts her eyes and pulls her lips into a pout, and then digs deep, because this is stupid. It’s just a word. They’re all just words.

And don’t they feel good when she makes herself say them? Even if part of her cringes in embarrassment, flushing? Isn’t that part of it?

Sure as shit part of it for him.

“I want your cock,” she breathes, and she sees a flash of his teeth in the corner of her vision as he grins. Triumph there. She could just _kick_ him.

“Louder.”

“I want your _cock_.” Petulant now, and she doesn’t care. “Daryl, _please._ ”

She’s annoyed. He didn’t even have to explicitly demand that she beg before she caved.

But then he’s sucking on her ear again, releasing her wrist to close his hand over her tit and knead her. “Where you want it?”

She wobbles and sags against the table, gripping it only for support. She doesn’t have much there, and once she was slightly self-conscious about it with him, but just like she taught him things, he taught her not to be. He _loves_ them, worships them with his hands and mouth, and when he grabs her all she can do is groan.

“You’re not helpin’ me all that much.” He sounds impatient, and she squeaks when he closes his thumb and forefinger on her nipple through the thin fabric of her shirt, and pinches. “You want it here? You want me to fuck those cute little tits?”

She hauls in a gasp, almost jerks back to stare at him.

He’s talked to her. He _likes_ talking to her when they do this. Describing her, describing what he sees, feels, what he feels for _her._ At some point a wall came down and this man who has always struggled for the right words found them with shocking ease and managed to _say things_ to her, as if making up for her reticence. But this is a new level… and he’s never done that. She knows it’s possible, technically - once using Shawn’s computer she stumbled upon a folder she was _definitely_ not supposed to be looking at, and among the other things that snapped her fourteen-year-old eyes wide was a picture of a man straddling a woman’s chest, gripping her enormous breasts as he rutted in the tight space between them with come already spattered across her face.

She’s nowhere near that big.

Maybe they could make it work anyway.

But her cunt is on _fire,_ pulse thudding in her lips and clit, and as intriguing as the idea is, it won’t help her deal with it. She shakes her head and so does he, in a mocking kind of mimicry. Twists her nipple again just for the hell of it. “So what, then?”

It’s not embarrassment stopping her now. It’s that he’s got her on the edge of coherence, his length hard as diamond against her hip and nudging her insistently when he moves, and when - _when_ \- her poor clit finally gets some direct attention she has no idea how she won’t come immediately.

“Your mouth?” His hand is suddenly gone from her tit and cupping her jaw, thumb pushing past her lips, heavy and salty on her tongue. “You wanna suck me, girl?”

Yes. As a matter of fact she does, but she also fucking doesn’t and if she lies just to get him moving at all he’ll know it. So she shakes her head even as she closes her lips around him and swirls her tongue, licking away the salt.

And it’s _his_ turn to moan, his turn to hiss _oh fuck, Beth,_ and yes, she still has this.

Sort of.

But she loses his thumb, and she feels so weirdly and uncomfortably _empty,_ like she almost had what she wants and even that’s gone now.

“Runnin’ outta possibilities.” He sounds thoughtful, leans in again so his teeth graze her jaw. “Don’t think you want it in your ass.” He pauses. Then: “Not yet.”

_Yet_.

She almost falls down. Oh fucking hell. Oh fucking _hell,_ what _happened_ to him out there, is he _possessed?_ And she doesn’t care. About anything. Her whimper rolls into a sob and then a louder one as his hand drops between her thighs and cups her, heel of his palm pressing against her clit, and fuck, _fuck,_ she might just come. She might.

“Say where you want it.”

All she can do is pant. Wriggle. Buck awkwardly against his fingers. He’s laughing again, teeth once more capturing her ear.

“Say it, honey. Say you want it in your pussy.”

She hasn’t used that word. _He_ hasn’t used that word. And it’s a word that once struck her as kind of silly, kind of stupid, not at all something that could do what it’s doing to her now, which is shoot her straight toward the edge. Her hips are moving in a stuttering rhythm, one he’s not at all accommodating, and she clenches her jaw and then clenches everything, and hisses, “I want it in my.” Deep breath. She’s close. If he would just- “I want it in my…”

“C’mon, sweetheart. You can.”

“I want it in my _pussy_.” It comes out in a tight whine and then he’s working her with his hand, palm pressing against her in that rhythm she was trying to capture, and she throws her head back and comes in her jeans, his name tearing out of her in a strangled cry, and he keeps up the pressure and seals his mouth over hers, capturing her tongue with his teeth and sucking at her like he can suck the last of it out of her and keep it for himself.

She’s still buzzing with it, panting and shuddering against him, when he grips her by the hips and whirls her around, and she has time to catch herself on the edge of the table - thumping it against the wall and once again making the picture above it rattle - before he’s jerking down her zipper and yanking at her jeans and then at her panties, shoving them both down her thighs with enough roughness that later she’ll have friction burns. She sucks in a hard gasp and totters as she feels the wet head of his cock sliding up and down her pussy lips, nudging her over-sensitive clit, and then he’s in her with a single deep plunge and she arches and yelps, and it _hurts_ a little…

But it’s fucking amazing.

It’s everything she wanted.

He doesn’t give her time. He withdraws and pushes in again and fucks her in smooth, quick thrusts, his cock gliding in what she knows must be a sea of her juices. Slick and squelching wet and she feels it cool on the insides of her thighs as the smack of skin on skin ricochets off the ceiling.

She drops her head between her shoulders, hair falling loose all around her face, but he grips her by the ponytail and jerks her head up, and the sting is a cascade of warm sparks inside her head.

“Tell me you want it.” It comes to her as a tight grunt edged with laughter. “C’mon. Tell me what you want me to keep doin’.”

And he’s gotten her there. Broken down that wall. Maybe it’ll go back up later but now she’s in the place where she doesn’t give a fuck anymore and she groans thickly as he stretches her throat taut and croaks, “God, Daryl, _fuck my pussy_.”

“Oh, good girl.” He does laugh, laughs _again_ as he fucks her against the table, hard enough to leave little dents in the wallpaper. “Keep… _Fuck,_ keep sayin’ it. Keep tellin’ me.”

She does. She loses all sense of organization; she’s not sure the words are even in the right order. But she does, tells him to fuck her, _fuck_ her, fuck her _pussy,_ his cock feels so good inside, it’s what she wanted and he’s giving it to her, her voice rising above his panting and his groans and the creak of ancient wood, and without thinking about it she plunges her hand between her legs and works clumsy fingers over her clit, slides further back to gather more wet, and her fingers graze the thick, pumping slickness of his shaft.

She’ll never know why that was the trigger. Doesn’t matter. She hiccups a cry and twists in his hands, returns her fingers to her clit just in time to give herself an extra shove as she flies over the edge and comes all over his cock, all over her circling fingers, throat working as broken moans force their way out of her and a fresh pulse of her juices drips down her inner thighs.

_Oh, fuckin’ hell._ Leaning over her now, fingers still digging into her hip, but he releases her hair and braces himself up with his hand over hers, teeth bared against her shoulder as he pistons into her. _I love your pussy, Beth,_ shit, _I fuckin’ love your tight little cunt, love it so fuckin’ much,_ and he goes rigid and wrenches back from her, hauling her ass against him with the wet sound of his hand on his cock as he milks out the rest of his orgasm. She feels hot, thick spatters of it across her tailbone and then just him holding onto her, heaving, curling an arm around her waist and pulling her up and flush with him as he sinks to the floor.

It’s hard, old wood and it’s not comfortable, and there’s nowhere else she can imagine wanting to be.

She lies there pressed chest to back with him, their clothes all pulled askew and his come sticky between them, and his breath slow and warm against the nape of her neck. The room is spinning gently, and it’s not until his hand slides under her shirt to cup her tit - simply because he always likes how it feels no matter what they’re doing - that she opens her eyes and finds herself staring into the beady eye of a very reproachful-looking dead rabbit.

She huffs a laugh, and his lips move against her ear, his voice muffled and a bit slurred. “Whasso funny?”

“Nothin’.” But it cracks her the fuck up. It does. This man who just _did_ that to her, who’s lying on the floor with her like this, stuck to her with sweat and come and his softening cock nestled into the crack of her ass in a way she finds bizarrely comfortable, who _said_ all those things and _made_ her say them too…

He used to be _shy._ It beggars belief.

So fuck it. She laughs. She laughs deep and sweet in her chest, rising and falling under his hand, and he just holds her tighter. He doesn’t need to get it.

He used to be shy. Now look how far they’ve both come.

Though the rabbit doesn’t seem especially impressed.


End file.
